When I was a boy, Saturday mornings in the winter were for ice fishing on Lac Renaud. My dad and I huddled in parkas in our ice hut over the hole we'd cut with the power auger and watched our lines disappear into it. Dad would always tell the same corny jokes, such as:
"Pete, do you know how to fish with a can of peas? Well, you open up a can of peas and leave it by the hole. When the fish comes up to take a pea, you grab him."
And so forth. I laughed the first dozen times he told it, then politely chuckled, then I just groaned.
"What do you want to do when you grow up, then?" he would ask between sips of coffee or beer, depending on what time of day it was. Walleye were stacked on the ice in the corner looking up with dead, milky eyes at the roof of our ice hut. A French language radio station would be playing in the background of that small cold space.
"I want to play for the Alouettes. Or the Canadiens. Maybe both," I would say. I was a boy, and it was all still possible then.
"Well, wouldn't that be something, eh?" he would say.
When Mum and I moved to England, Puberty was there to greet me. Then Saturdays were for sleeping late, watching the telly, then a little studying and then a nap. And if Mum left for any length of time, surfing porn and wanking.
These days Saturdays are spent being active. Nellie gets me up early and drags me to yoga, spin class, the gym. It varies from week to week, but we always cap it off with a run in Hyde Park. She's fitter, quicker than I am, and she's always ahead of me when we run, which suits me fine. I like the way she fills out her running tights, and I like the bounce of her hair, which has stopped changing colours and has settled for a platinum blonde. When we're done, her hair is sweaty-wet against her head, and her tights are clinging to her figure, curving tightly over buttocks that are sleek and round and firm. We stop in the Starbucks on Brompton Road to get a bottle of water and a coffee. She seems to enjoy the attention her camel toe gets as she sprawls out on a stool to display it, the little bulge with a cleft in it. She turns her head to talk to me as she slouches back on the stool so that the neatly indented mound seems to greet people: Hello, everyone! I'm Nellie's pussy!
Beneath her loose tank top the vine-and-bird tattoo winds up her side under the hot pink sports bra. The cold air has her nipples nudging against the pink fabric. She knows everyone is stealing glimpses. Oh, she knows, all right. I've seen her nonchalantly put an iced latte to them to get them to nudge harder at the fabric.
After our post-run coffees, we return to our flat and shower (together), soaping each other (naughty bits need extra attention), until she's bent forward with the spray pattering on the smooth skin between her shoulder blades, water cascading over the vine-and-bird on her side and down the small of her back between the smooth white cheeks of her bum and down to the tub like a rainspout. The pouting vertical lips are gaping pink and ready for me. She puts a foot on the side of the bathtub to open herself up, and from behind I slide my cock into her smooth pussy. That first slow shove makes her head lift, and she moans above the spray of the shower. Her white-blonde hair is plastered down, parted over the ballet slippers tattoo on the nape of her neck, and the mist clings to her eyelashes and makes them mat together. My hands are around her sides and on her front, and her tits, perfect handfuls, fill my palms just so. She puts one hand on the tiled wall and reaches down to feel where I enter her, fondling my swaying balls and rubbing her clit. We slap together in the spray, and when I feel her pussy clinch and contract and clinch and release and clinch again, I grab her hips and pull myself deep into her and let go. Our exclamations are hollow and muted by the falling water and the tile.
And then it's only the tinkle of the shower and our panting. I ease out of her, and she turns to me with a soggy grin and eyes like little green suns with misty rays. She rises on the balls of her feet just a little to kiss me, and then she melts into me with her cheek against my chest.
"Oh, Peetie," she coos.
It certainly beats ice fishing.
Then it's time for a healthy lunch (she insists, easy on the crisps, love), and we're off to the museum. The National Gallery is her favorite. She sits on a bench in one of the quiet rooms in a short skirt and a blouse with the top button open, or maybe the top two, sketching one of the masters, usually one of the impressionists like The Ballet Dancers by Degas. I've noticed she likes art that she can perceive movement in. She sits in a position that growing up we called Indian style, and she's unconcerned that her pretty knickers are showing, whether they be lacy or sheer or both, white, black, plum coloured, aquamarine, thong, bikini. She has quite a collection, and she always wears a matching bra whose lacy cups just cover her pink nipples. If I could draw, I would sketch her.
She's changed her hair and wears it up like a pixie, and I've begun calling her Tinker Bell instead of Nellie Bell. She didn't like it at first, but she sees the affection in it now and has begun calling me Peetie Pan. She'll even pose like Tinkerbell, pouting with her arms crossed or sitting with one leg pulled up while she clutches her knee.
So when the office has a costume party, we naturally go as Tinkerbell and Peter Pan. Where did she find the little green dress with the short hem cut in triangles? Her toned legs are perfect for it. And I guess pixies don't wear knickers.
According to Nellie, Peetie Pan only wears tights under his costume, no underwear. During the course of the night, Tinker Bell keeps reaching under my costume to feel my cock and balls through the stretchy green fabric. And that makes Peetie Pan as hard as Captain Hook's hand.
The marquis at the door says "Morrison Wedding Reception" so we go down a separate hall and there it is:
"Corporate Concepts, Quarterly Celebration Party".
The music behind the door seems to push it open the way a strong wind might, and there's Mr. Grisham to greet us. He's dressed as a sea captain, of course, in a double breasted blue suit with gold piping on the sleeve. With his whiskers, there's no need for a mask or makeup. He's arranged a reception hall at this fancy hotel in Hammersmith for the occasion. It's all possible now that the firm is going great guns, in large part due to Nellie and me. We've even made the cover of London Business Matters, have you seen it? In it, Mr. Grisham is leaning back against his desk with his arms folded, and he's sporting a grim, businesslike smile. I'm on one corner of the desk in a suit and tie, sitting with one thigh resting on the edge. Nellie's on the other side of him in a pose that's a mirror image to mine, wearing a smart little pinstriped business suit with low heels, a knee-length skirt and white striped blouse, smiling a metal-bracketed smile. Only I know that underneath she's wearing a garter and stockings and nothing else. Shhh. Don't tell anyone, just enjoy the picture if you see it. It's on the newsstands now and should be there through the end of the month.
Captain Grisham greets us at the door of the party.
